


Naptime

by Tridraconeus



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Cameras, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Impalement, Stabbing, bear traps, power naps
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23797231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tridraconeus/pseuds/Tridraconeus
Summary: It’s gotten to the point where if he stays still for a single moment his eyes will droop— will burn, and close, and he will fall asleep.Occasions in which one Quentin Smith has unwillingly succumbed to the siren song of rest.
Comments: 70
Kudos: 152





	1. Trial Fifty-Two

**Author's Note:**

> FULLY intending for all of these to be gen but also please consider shipping Quentin/Evan/Smithmillan I think that would be great. I'm the Quentin rarepair police.  
> This is completely self-indulgent so please understand this going in!

_Snap._

Impeccably honed edges bit his shin and he went down. It always hurt, even when the jaws were padded, and they most definitely were not padded this time. It woke him up, that was for sure, made him scream horribly into the claustrophobic halls of the Hawkins Lab. His scream was answered moments later by Laurie’s— then the distant sound of wood slamming down. 

If he was fast, he could free himself and hide out to heal. Good plan. Solid plan, and he set himself to doing just that. It was almost too easy to dig his hands into the jaws and pry them open. 

Instead of allowing him to stumble on out to safety, his newly-freed leg started gushing blood all over the floor. The tendon was totally ruined. His leg looked more fitting to be on a butcher’s block than attached to his body when he dared to take a peek, and he barely had looked at it for a second before revulsion took hold. It wouldn’t support his weight— sent him sliding down, falling onto his chest. 

Laurie was still leading the Trapper on a chase. Hopefully, she’d lose him. Hopefully, she’d get out. 

The pain fuzzed and dulled. He recognized that it hurt in a distant, annoyed way, like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch, an injury he just couldn’t take care of himself. 

If Laurie could only tug him to his feet, he’d be _fine_ if a little banged up, but she was in a chase, and he was... here. Whimpering a little, holding still to avoid agitating his mangled leg, and with nothing to do but wait for Laurie to save him or the Trapper to hook him. He cradled his head in his crossed arms and sighed. 

His eyes closed.

Snapped open.

The pain. He was in an awful lot of pain, wasn’t he? He should be screaming from it. His body should be given over to the throes of agony. He thought about the sheer magnitude of pain he should be in and managed to notice that he was, indeed, in pain. He dragged himself forward a little bit and that made him hurt worse as his ruined ankle dragged itself over the razor-sharp teeth of the trap. 

Laurie was, unbelievably, still getting chased. Leave it to her to be able to pull that off. 

He liked Laurie— had learned a thing or two from her about not taking shit from stalkers. 

His eyes dipped shut again.

 _Freddy!_ Freddy could get him. That was why he stayed awake all the damn time, because he’d rather look and feel like flaming garbage than let that awful man have any opportunity to torment him outside of the rigid structure of a trial. 

It worked to keep him awake for maybe fifteen seconds, counted generously, and the next time his eyes closed they were too heavy to open. 

—

The Trapper was a professional. That didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy his work, or didn’t take time to have fun. 

His prey today was Laurie— he knew _her_ name, at least— the saboteur— he could learn his name, but the annoying little _pest_ didn’t deserve the honor— the old soldier, and the new boy. 

The saboteur died first. He was pleased with that. Lately, he’d been playing more aggressively— more recklessly. If the Trapper didn’t know any better, he’d say he was trying to get his attention. Never a good thing to want. Never a good thing to get, and he’d gotten it in spades.

The old soldier was consumed next.

Then it was just Laurie, the new boy, and him. He found Laurie first and chased her.

A trap triggered, the new boy screamed, and he let it be to continue chasing Laurie. The boy would go down when he freed himself, or else he would stay in the trap like a good little worm, and he was dead either way.

Laurie was a different story. She slammed a pallet down bare millimeters from his head and sprinted down the hall. 

He caught her eventually. He hooked her, she screamed, and she died. It was a familiar sequence of events.

He was not, perhaps, the Entity’s favorite, but he was the most experienced and the most reliable of the dark stable. With experience came proficiency; trials became stale. Interesting, occasionally, but stale. He saw the pack that would be loosed to him; he tailored his arsenal to cripple them and break their morale; and shortly, he broke _them_ , and sent them back to their campfire, where they would wait until they were called next.

Some would even volunteer for trials, pulling one of their fellows out and substituting themselves at the last moment— it wasn’t a common event, but had grown more common with the Entity’s new addition.

The new boy. The relatively new boy. He’d been elbowing his way into trials back-to-back without even a breather period for himself, like trials were better than what would happen if he stopped to breathe for even a second. Knowing Krueger, maybe it was. The boy was industrious. He kept himself busy, whether with repairing generators, repairing his teammates, or running chases with the expertise of somebody who was very familiar with running. He set himself to the grim drudgery with ceaseless determination. 

It was not Survivors who should have zeal for trials. In the Trapper’s humble opinion, the boy was possessed. 

And now he was down, and all his friends were dead. Things were not looking good for him. To the Trapper, he was little more than an annoyance, and he would be laughably easy to deal with now that he was isolated. 

As he turned the corner to retrieve the boy, he almost did a double-take. He was asleep. His head was turned to the side, propped on his folded arms. The Trapper was nearly offended for a moment— did he disrespect the trial that much? Was he faking it?— before realizing that the boy was the special kind of boneless and undignified that only the sleeping or the dead were. Without the enforced distance of the campfire’s grace period or the frenzy of a trial, the Trapper got a good look at the boy, standing right over his head.

Perhaps _possessed_ wasn’t the right word. _Haunted_ was better. He was gaunt and strained from what the Trapper recognized as too much stress and far too little sleep. Not even the pounding of the Entity’s alarm-call could wake him now. He was truly down for the count— he was drooling on his arm a little, loosely holding onto the decorated emergency first aid kit that he was so attached to.

The Trapper sighed and thumped off to find and close the hatch. At least he didn’t have to worry about the boy going anywhere.

Before he closed the hatch, he broke a few of the pallets that were laying around. Tracked down the lazily chugging generators and kicked them in, too. Then he returned to where the boy was fast asleep in a steadily-growing pool of his own blood and picked him up— he didn’t wake up even then. The Trapper supposed that the only thing capable of waking him up would be the hook.

When he jammed him down onto the cruel thing, it was. The boy screamed and flailed, jerkily grasping at the hook protruding from his shoulder, and realization froze his face into vile, horrified revulsion. His grip tightened on the first aid kit, loath to lose it to the Entity, but only a second later he was pierced through, hollowed out, and taken back to the campfire as it clattered to the ground. 

The Trapper had pleased the Entity, this trial. 


	2. Trial Ninety-Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They called him the bloodhound, and he knew like any hunting hound the more he showed his teeth the less he would actually have to use them, and he was both visually imposing and reclusive enough that Krueger hadn’t discovered he was— as Evan said— a pathetic bleedin’ softie— yet.

They called him the bloodhound, and he knew like any hunting hound the more he showed his teeth the less he would actually have to use them, _and_ he was both visually imposing and reclusive enough that Krueger hadn’t discovered he was— as Evan said— _a pathetic bleedin’ softie_ — yet.

Krueger’s favorite chew toy was in this trial, alongside Claudette, Jane, and Jeff. The Wraith was altogether grateful for the matchup. He wasn’t hunting as hard as he normally would, even, to enjoy the comparatively relaxed pace of the trial. 

He knew that the Entity didn’t keep him around because he was an excellent killer. He was easily stopped by something as simple as a flashlight, even, and once Nea, Feng, and Meg had kept him trapped in a corner for nearly an entire trial with the threat of excruciating lightburn. 

He was kept around because the Entity knew that he was a _pathetic bleedin’ softie_. It didn’t mean that his trials were bloodless, or even that anybody escaped, but the Survivors with a dwindling reservoir of hope usually left with a little bit more. 

Claudette had been leading him away from one corner of the map over and over, and usually that meant someone was working on the generator over there but he couldn’t sense any progress being made on it at all. It should have been done thrice over by now. 

He bashed her in the back and did not pursue, sending her scurrying off to be healed. 

Jane tried to head him off next, and he ignored her. What was going on back there that they were so adamant on keeping secret? Were the other two survivors having sex or something? 

He stood and listened once he approached the generator. It was rumbling quietly, not even halfway done, and not giving any indication that it was being worked on at all. Jane stood a few feet behind him, ready to dash out and catch his attention again, but he padded forward to the generator and continued to ignore her.

There was a body. Not a body, a person, _Quentin_. He was laying down and obviously asleep, using a high-end aid kit as a pillow. Right. Krueger couldn’t get to him in trials unless they were together. Quentin was normally so _good_ about staying awake, too, so he must be exhausted. 

Jane touched his elbow. She shouldn’t have— he knew it, they both did. He understood her wordless plea well enough. 

He nodded. 

He raised his sickle, and gave chase after Jane.


	3. Trial One-Hundred-and-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been going well until an unexpected yawn broke his concentration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> d*nny  
> please ship ghostsmith but also, please don't, I just don't want to be alone in the tag anymore lmao

It had been going well until an unexpected yawn broke his concentration. He was out like a light the second he completed the gen.

He woke to a sting on his cheek and an unfamiliar male voice, and then there was terror, and a click, and pain, and dark. 

—

He slapped Quentin on the cheeks a few times, lightly, just to wake him up.

“Wakey wakey, bedhead.”

And wake he sure did— Danny caught on camera first innocent bleary drowsiness, then the beginnings of terrified alertness, and then his face twisting in pain as the tactical knife found his heart. He’d done well. Deserved that kill. When he looked through his camera roll later, he kept coming back to the picture of Quentin as he was _juuuust_ waking up. 

He saw what Freddy saw in the kid, he really did. 


	4. Trial One-Hundred-and-Fifty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor was not a fan of pedophiles. The Clown was already pushing it— he was not a fan of rapists either. Perhaps it was simple professional pride.

The Doctor was not a fan of pedophiles. The Clown was already pushing it— he was not a fan of rapists either. Perhaps it was simple professional pride. There were so many better ways to break a person, and sexual violation was so obvious. So blunt and blasé. So _tasteless_. 

The Nightmare and one of his victims had been in the Entity for a good while, enough that both were comfortably settled in and a dynamic had been set. The Nightmare did not interest the Doctor all that much. Yes, he was immensely powerful. Yes, he certainly had an impressive track record. He was also a thoroughly unpleasant man and was not welcome in Léry’s. His victim, on the other hand, was _quite_ fascinating— Quentin Smith was a study in resiliency and pure bullheaded stubbornness. The Doctor had caught him pocketing pill bottles once. Had caught him after taking some of those mystery pills, too, his eyes as big as the moon and him completely incapable of running. He’d fallen asleep over his shoulder a few times. 

Now Quentin was slumped over asleep with his head on one of the waiting room chairs. His first aid kit was open on the floor next to him— he’d pulled his shirt halfway up to dress the characteristic sucking puncture wounds left by the Doctor’s Stick. The snow-white dressings served to hold his shirt there while he himself was solidly out. Somehow, the Doctor knew he’d find pill bottles if he turned him upside-down and shook him like a thieving piggy bank. 

The Doctor sighed instead and stuck his Stick in his belt, bending to flip and snap the kit shut. He picked Quentin up and slung him over his shoulder, picking up the emergency kit with his other hand and carrying both with ease to a dilapidated recovery room. 

Philip had told him of an entertaining trial where the Survivors attempted to steer him away from where Quentin was taking an involuntary nap. Maybe with some sleep, he’d be able to give the Nightmare more trouble than usual. That sounded good to the Doctor— any excuse to torment the man, directly or not, were opportunities that he frequently took. The Hatch was singing somewhere and he paid it no mind in favor of returning to his office to page through some documents. If the Entity could forgive Philip’s consistently pathetic performance, it could forgive him letting one Survivor go. 

An hour later there was a scream from the recovery room; the sound of things crashing and falling; and not a minute later, the trial abruptly ended. 

The Doctor never did find out what happened there. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me n my homies hate freddy


	5. Trial Two-Hundred-and-Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smith— Quentin, the Survivors called him— was a quiet, hardworking young man who put the good of the team before himself. It could be called honor, but honor was not so self-sacrificing. It was something else, then, that Kazan did not want to think too closely about.

As far as trials went, Kazan had been having a very good time of it. In short succession he had killed Kimura and used her spilt blood to down Smith, Park, and Thomas. 

Thomas was first, because she had crawled over to the saboteur and was attempting to pull him behind cover. Then, he returned for Park. He didn’t even struggle; just sighed, resigned to his fate. Kazan could appreciate a man who knew he was beaten. 

Then, he had levered himself off the hook _somehow_ when Kazan went to find Smith, and had led him on a very annoying chase, but he eventually cornered and downed him. Then Park stabbed him with a screwdriver and ran him around the entire arena _again_ before going down and being hooked for good this time. He was a fighter even if he couldn’t fight back, not really. Kazan could appreciate that, as well.

Park died, body taken up by the Entity, and Kazan resumed his previous task of locating the last Survivor.

And for the life of him, he could not find Smith. Smith— Quentin, the Survivors called him— was a quiet, hardworking young man who put the good of the team before himself. It could be called honor, but honor was not so self-sacrificing. It was something else, then, that Kazan did not want to think too closely about. He was also awfully haggard and had apparently trapped both himself and his nemesis inside this place, and paid for it dearly. 

There! Soft, pained moaning from inside the residence. Quentin must have dragged himself inside in search of the hatch.

Well, he wouldn’t get it. Kazan strode forward to interrupt his pitiful crawling and haul him off to a meathook.

There was no reaction from the curled body on the floor. 

_Unbelievable_. Horrifically maimed as he was, he’d managed to drift off to sleep in the middle of the room. He was bleeding all over the tatami mats. He’d ran, and screamed, and fought, for so hard and for so long that even in the realm of the Entity his body couldn’t take it. 

Kazan stood and watched for nearly a full minute as Quentin breathed in and out, noises of unconscious discomfort accompanying every single exhale. He was bleeding out. The Entity would not be pleased if Kazan allowed him to bleed out when he was right there.

He lifted Smith over his shoulder and walked to the basement, more slowly than he would have normally. It was so much easier to carry Survivors when they didn’t struggle; even as a dead weight Smith barely weighed anything, and the slow, even breathing was a far cry from what he normally dealt with. 

The almost meditative quiet was broken with his shriek as Kazan put him on the hook. The small crucifix necklace bounced against his chest, he convulsed, and howled, and was pierced through. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> devs made a lore decision i don't like so now if/when i write caleb's chapter i don't have to pretend to care and i'll just have him know who the survivors are.


	6. Trial Two-Hundred-and-Fifty-Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wake up,” he said, just to see if Quentin would.   
> He didn’t. His blood soaked into the false-snow and faded out, replaced by new puddles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ship morrismith

Frank cut the tired kid some slack in trials. He knew he shouldn’t. He usually ended up killing him anyways regardless of _slack_ , but the amount of times he’d put him on the ground, chased down the others, and come back to pick him up and found him asleep was truly astounding. He’ll have staunched his bleeding as much as possible and laid there waiting for someone to come, and when inevitably nobody did, he’d tuck his head into his shoulder and fall asleep. 

_Now_. Frank knew about Freddy. He knew that the gross old man couldn’t get to Quentin in trials. He knew that he’d definitely be selfish enough to hide in a corner and grab some shuteye if he were in Quentin’s position. 

So it led him to situations like this, pacing around Quentin while he bleeds out, unconscious. He was the last one left. He came to David’s rescue— he always did, like some sort of soft-hearted superhero— and got them both downed for his trouble even though David had managed to power back to his feet at the last second. 

Frank hooked David and hustled on back just in case Quentin wanted to pull some shit, and now he was here. Quentin’s voice was soft, and breathy, and pained. He was limp, like a broken toy. Frank paced for another half of a minute before sighing and sitting down, cross-legged, next to him.

Quentin came to Ormond to forage, sometimes. He thought Frank couldn’t see him. He’d creep around the old ski lift shed and dig the frigid earth until his fingers were blue and frozen and most of the time the ground didn’t give up anything useful, but he kept doing it on the off chance he’d find a muddy flashlight or chunks of blood amber. Then, he’d sit back on his knees and puff breath over his frozen fucking fingers and Frank would turn away from the sorry sight and get another cigarette. 

Quentin wasn’t going to wake up. Frank would like for him to. Then, maybe, he could stab him and brutalize him, and it would be funny. It would feel good. He didn’t want to be thinking about Quentin tearing himself to bits for _scraps_ during a trial.

“Wake up,” he said, just to see if Quentin would. 

He didn’t. His blood soaked into the false-snow and faded out, replaced by new puddles. 

“Fuckin’ hate you,” he told his motionless body. “Stop fuckin’ dying for them. They don’t do shit for you.” 

He was getting jittery again. It flowed through his body and pooled in his hands and feet. He was clenching his teeth; his jaw hurt. _Time to kill this fool_ , he decided to himself, and stood up to dust the snow off of himself.

“Wake the fuck up!”

He kicked Quentin in the side, feeling something in himself twist happily as Quentin folded in two and cried out. Quentin raised his hand to block a strike but Frank stabbed him anyway, eyes fixed on the floodlights glinting against Quentin’s necklace. Blood rushing in his ears. Screaming.


	7. Trail Two-Hundred and Eighty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She almost missed him, curled up in the weeds; the sleepy boy, who made things so difficult for her.

Anna didn’t know why she put the screaming people on meat hooks, but it felt _right_ somehow, and if she hooked one enough times she would be rewarded with its removal from her territory. The hunt itself was enjoyable; they could avoid her hatchets only so many times. Sometimes she would open a locker and find better, sharper hatchets inside. 

She felt strange killing the girls. Some of them looked so young. When they screamed, it made her heart twist, hurt and confused. The last time she had let a whole group of them go on purpose she had become horribly sick. She did not do it again. 

She hummed absentmindedly and turned a corner into a maze of log walls to retrieve more hatchets. 

She almost missed him, curled up in the weeds; the sleepy boy, who made things so difficult for her. She should hook him now so he couldn’t wake up and cause her trouble again. Her lullaby worked; he must like it. Yes, he must like the lullaby. Anna did not take the little boys because they were too rambunctious and adventurous and so she found it too hard to keep them safe. The sleepy boy was _not_ a little boy, and he was a trespasser besides, but Anna sat down cross-legged beside him and reached out to comb her fingers through his messy, wavy hair. The sensation of warm, bare skin against her palm made her heart leap and skip. 

She would hook him eventually; he would face the fate of trespassers as he had before and would in the future. 

For now, Anna petted his hair and hummed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok well uhhhhh I'm out of chapters so if there's anyone in particular u want to See let me know


	8. Trial Two-Hundred-and-???

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a little difficult to get the reverse trap over his beanie, but she managed. He didn’t wake up.  
> Sooner or later, a gen would pop. He wasn’t doing anything. He’d wake up, or he’d die.

Amanda did not like the mask. It was stuffy and got hot, and it stank, and was hard to breathe in, and it was hard to _see_ out of, too. She took it off at every opportunity. She barely wore it around her realm, and only rarely wore it when she was visiting the others. 

She visited Evan the most often out of all of them. They were friends, probably. He didn’t ask her to self-disclose or try to give her advice. They talked about bear traps. It was a practice in mutual self-improvement. When they did talk, they talked most often of the realms, the other Killers, the survivors. 

_I know,_ Evan said, tinkering with some springs, _when the Nightmare’s favorite will fall asleep in my trial._

_Oh? How is that?_

It was the way he stood; a different shine of desperation in his eyes. Mainly, Evan used it to winnow them down until Quentin was one of the last two, where he couldn’t cause trouble. Amanda couldn’t tell whether he liked the kid or not and just appreciated the semi-reliable strategy.

She’d thought it was funny in a sad sort of way but didn’t expect to find him asleep in her trial, cozied up to a completed gen. It was a little difficult to get the reverse trap over his beanie, but she managed. He didn’t wake up.

Sooner or later, a gen would pop. He wasn’t doing anything. He’d wake up, or he’d die.

She left to hunt down the others. 

There were two gens left by the time she returned to check in on him. The timer was beeping insistently; a nagging thought in the back of her head admonished her that this wasn’t very _sporting_.

“C’mon. Up and at ‘em.” She shook his shoulder. 

That, the heartbeat, and the discomfort of the trap was collectively enough to drag him awake. Slowly, then suddenly, like a dam breaking.

His eyes snapped open. His hands flew to the metal jaws, the prongs in his mouth. She _knew_ the look in his eyes.

 _Here it comes. Here comes the pain_. She tilted her head. 

“Go on, sleepyhead,” she murmured. Offered him a hand. He had about a minute left; enough time if he was lucky.

Quentin Smith was not lucky. He was determined. He scraped something out of nothing. With a minute left on the timer, he would be scraping very hard indeed.

He took her hand and allowed her to haul him up, sparing her one last wild, desperate glance, and sprinted in the direction of a keybox. 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a-amanda...


End file.
